Tryna

The birds sound different; there’re more and it’s louder. The water pressure is much lighter in the shower. It’s dark outside – I mean straight pitched jet (there was a kingdom that I ruled once and now lately I forget just where I’ve placed it or I left it or if I got drunk and set it on the curb to be picked up before I’m up next morning). There is storming (!); I love it with parents on my porch. There’s a sun that’s much closer – close enough to scorch the skin I thought was pretty tan and I’m much less of a man than I thought I was last month and I have this nagging hunch that the money will run out soon. Meanwhile, the moon is more beautiful than usual and I am more subdued and will be happy to lay down with almost whoever will have me. I am grabbing at the last thin bent straws of freedom – it’s as though I can still see them but just in a catalogue. I was wrong to think that I had this all on lock – now I spend the daytime cursing at the clock and hoping nobody will call me and my folks will go to sleep because I am happy when I’m lonely and there’s dark hallways to creep down solely, solitary now unburied halfway dark and still unmarried. Nobody will love me because I could not love them. It is not within my being (yet), I still have trouble with friends and the idea of all of it and I am so so full of shit and wrapped up in my strangeness that I know there’s things I missed because I was too preoccupied with some nonsense on my mind that I could not summon the nerve to walk up to a door and try to finally be something more than a broke-ass, smartass, drunkass, living-with-his-parents whore.